


On the Road to Ruin

by bluRaaven



Series: Blacktyde Chronicles [4]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Blacktyde Chronicles, Character Background, Multi, Self-Destruction, Sexual Content, Social Decline, Substance Abuse, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-08 18:47:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3219524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluRaaven/pseuds/bluRaaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let the tale begin with a storm. With a tempest that finally abates as the last days of autumn draw near, and a boy of six-and-ten who clings to the withered hand of a dying man.</p><p>In this sequel to 'A Wild and Wicked Youth' Wulf's journey to adulthood continues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! Wulf is the protagonist of the Blacktyde Chronicles which you do NOT need to be familiar with to read this story. However, I advise that you read 'A Wild and Wicked Youth' first, or you'll miss out on half of the plot.  
> As a quick summary: Wulf was 12 when he left the Imperial City with Rislav's caravan in chapter 2 of AWWY. In the Epilogue where he visits Ra'Jira in Elsweyr he is already ~25.
> 
> WARNING for graphic depictions of violence, character death, coarse language, mentions of rape, substance abuse, sexual content, homosexuality. If any of the above make you feel uncomfortable, this might not be the right story for you. Tags apply. 
> 
> This story takes a rather dark turn, but I hope you will enjoy it nonetheless.

Let the tale begin with a storm. With a tempest that finally abates as the last days of autumn draw near, and a boy of six-and-ten who clings to the withered hand of a dying man. Time seems to have stopped in the still attic room around which the warm, humid air curls itself like the innkeeper's sleepy cat.

To the unsuspecting onlooker the scene unfurling before them might appear peaceful. From the usually well frequented common room downstairs no noise can be heard and the only sounds to break through the hush are the occasional squeak of the chair when the boy shifts, or the creak of a floorboard. Even the gentle music of water dripping, collecting in the empty flowerpots beneath the window sill is enough to drown out the laboured rasp of the old man's breathing.

Through the open window the last light of the setting sun bathes the tiny, wood-furnished room in a golden glow; the veil of Kyne's wrath pulled aside like a curtain for the Divine to grace the newly cleansed counrtryside with one last benign smile ere night falls.

If the boy looked up he might have seen the beauty of a storm's aftermath; felt the breeze in his hair and caught the deep scent of wet earth and fresh greenery. Then maybe his thoughts would have turned towards rebirth rather than death, for just like the downpour, all things good and bad must come to an end.

But the boy's blue eyes are trained on the frail hand in his as he studies the history of the life it tells. Joints swollen from clutching the long reins as it unerringly steered their wagon in even the deepest of winters. Ink stains set so deeply in the creases they have become permanent, and yellowed nails cracked at the tips. He tries to count the liver spots that dot the back, the only thing apart from the ribbons of veins to give a little colour to the soft, papery skin.

Twice he had gotten up. Once to fetch one more pillow to prop up the prone figure in bed and the second time to hold a cup of tepid water to the grandfatherly Nord's lips. The old man had taken a few sips and coughed weakly, some of the liquid spilling and running down his unshaven chin.

Now the boy sits still.

He waits.

Masser is but a shadow in the sky, yet Secunda shines all the brighter for the absence of his brother. It is nearly midnight when the boy's vigil ends and he uncurls from his spot at the bedside, stands up and stretches. He begins to pack, and the hand now rests limply on top of the pale down quilt. Without the heat of life it will grow cold soon.

The Nord boy shoulders a pack that is too big for him and buckles on a sword which is no toy, unlike those the other lads of his age play with. Then he quietly slips out of the door and it is almost as if he has never been here at all. He hasn't even closed the dead man's eyes or covered him with a sheet. But one must know that the boy has never been taught the meaning of such gestures.

The unsuspecting onlooker might feel compelled to offer him comfort.

They would be well advised not to.


	2. On a Rainy Autumn Day

On a rainy autumn day Wulf watches his friend and teacher of four years die alone and forgotten, in the only inn of a quaint country village he hadn't even bothered learning the name of.  It would have been a beautiful place to wait out the winter, yet by the time the first grey light of morning washes over the countryside and the sun rises to set Colovia's fields of wild grain on fire, he has already put seven miles between himself and the last of the farmhouses. 

They had never intended to stop there, not even to replenish their provisions.  A fortnight ago Rislav and he had indulged in a shared bottle of sweet red wine to celebrate that they would reach their final destination for the year, Chorrol, before winter did.  A fortnight ago the world had still been alright. 

And then, a couple days later – they had scarcely passed the weather-worn welcome sign – when Rislav had gone still, one hand clutching at his chest.  He would have fallen out of the coach, if Wulf had not caught and lowered him to the ground.  Several farmers working the fields bore witness and rushed over to help.  One grabbed the reins of the horse which had simply plodded on in its confusion, while two others helped Wulf carry the old merchant to the inn. 

The town did not have a proper healer, only an aging herb woman, and she shook her head sadly after taking a look at the unconscious man.  The action sent her short, mouse-grey locks bouncing.  'There is no cure for old age,' she had said, gently.  She could brew a draught to dull any pain and ease his passing, and declined any coin for the service performed. 

Wulf was kindly counselled to pray to Arkay for his master's soul and left alone after he handed a few Septims over to the innkeeper in payment for the lodgings.  He tried to follow the advice, but the right words would not come to him.  He had never been raised in the Faith of the Eight, nor that of any other Divines for the matter.  Wulf thanked Mara or Kynareth for fortunate turns of fate, and cursed by Talos when in Nord company, and by Shor when not.  Even that bit was more out of habit than any kind of devotion. 

That night he had gone through the motions, despite his heart not being in it. 

Why should he pray to the Gods when they were about to take his last friend from him? 

After all the time they had spent in each other's company, he had not once thought of the kind old man as a father figure.  Family is a frightening, foreign concept he has never been introduced to.  His own father, whom he had run from years ago, had been barely more than a stranger he had to tolerate and share living space with – sometimes remorseful, often violent, never outwardly caring, and at all times drunk and better avoided. 

When Wulf had joined Rislav's caravan at the age of two-and-ten, the merchant had been accompanied by four others; Bronn, a hairy brute of a Nord, Sven Quickdraw, named for his mastery of the longbow, Sliveig, a woman as canny and fierce as a vixen, and Holmar who was also called the Redbeard, and – as Wulf had learned when the others had deemed him old enough to share in the joke – not for the colour of his hair. 

They had accepted the boy as one of their own when the leader of the guards came to owe a life-debt to the boy.  Four years they had journeyed together, but over time Rislav's condition had gradually become worse until for the last half-year he and Wulf had travelled alone for most of the time. 

Those who were not dead had abandoned the merchant, _like rats scurrying to flee a sinking ship._ Wulf remembered the phrase from living in the Waterfront, though he did not recall having been on board of a ship that wasn't the Bloated Float the Second. 

He liked the saying well enough, and enjoyed the thought of the other guards as cowards, not willing to stay around at the first sign of harder times lying ahead.  Then again none of the hirelings had a reason for loyalty better than coin, and gold had become a rare sight in their treasure box, replaced by silver and far too much copper.  Wulfryk was the only one whose steadfastness ran deeper than a debt of money. 

It was night when Rislav drew his last weak breath. 

This time Wulf didn't need Sliveig to tell him. 

_Holmar had used to tell stories of how he had adopted the orphan to wide-eyed and big-breasted tavern girls in the hope of getting what he called a 'sympathy fuck'.  Wulf didn't mind.  The lie had earned him more kisses than it did the Redbeard._

The reality of death did not live up to what the stories made it to be.  Wulf already knew that, having survived the post-war starvation and the plague that followed the battle for the Imperial city, step-in-step, like ill-fated brethren. 

At least this time death was a quiet, almost peaceful affair _._

_So unlike when Holmar had taken an axe through his lower body.  It had been a skirmish with a ragged group of outlaws, no different from the dozens of fights they had come through together.  Except that it was not, because the man who had taken Wulf under his wing four years ago was sitting propped up against a log with a blanket slowly turning the colour of rust thrown over him to cover up his injuries and keep the flies off his innards.  It took Holmr the better part of the day to die, because the Nord stubbornly refused Sven's offer of a knife through the heart, lest the gatekeepers of Sovngarde somehow saw that as cheating._

_And then had come a time when he'd been gone far enough, sporadic curses turning to grunts that grew weaker with every passing hour, until Holmar's head fell back, where he just stared at a point over Wulf's shoulder._

_The boy had even turned to look.  For one blissful moment he had not understood._

_But the boon of ignorance did not last.  Wulf did not know that in the Summer of the Plague the Imperial City lost what amounted to roughly one third of its population, but he had seen dead bodies being carted out of the gates in numbers unseen since the end of the war itself.  He was no stranger to Arkay's mortal deeds._

_"Is he dead now?"  Wulf asked, finding no other words to voice his grief.  Real Nords did not cry, his father had used to tell him.  Warriors, his companions had taught him, toasted the departed with a drink, and commended their souls to Sovngarde.  Death, experience had shown him, was a part of life._

_"Yeah."  Sliveig who stood leaning on her shovel, sighed heavily.  "He's gone.  Bastard owed me an ale, too."  She shook her head.  Wulf wasn't sure if the hint of sadness he thought he heard in her voice was real or imagined.  "Come on, we better start digging."_

The wagon hits a hole in the road and Wulf lurches in his seat, bruising his behind and jarring his teeth.  He curses and pulls on the reins, drawing forth an unhappy snort from Breki, the twenty year old gelding, who tosses his head, but obediently stops.  The wagon rocks back, and when he is sure that the horse will not start walking as soon as he releases his grip on the reins, Wulf climbs down and gives the draught a pet on the flank. 

The faithful beast that stands at nine-and-ten hands had earned his name by pulling the wagon through mud and mire, and drifts of snow high enough to thwart a man. 

Once Wulf manages to sell some of the goods he ought to look into buying a filly, and give away old Breki to a farm where he might spend the last of his days in retirement, munching on oats and dewy meadow-grass. 

The old merchant had instructed Wulfryk in many things, amongst them how to take care of the horse.  Not only that, but without woman or child to look after, he had named his young protégée his sole heir. 

Now the wagon and everything inside it are Wulf's – and a nice job he does taking care of it, nearly ploughing it through the trench.  A broken axle would strand him here, in the middle of nowhere with no help to be found nearby and winter nipping on his heels.  Wulfryk crouches down to inspect the wagon's underside, but beneath its coating of mud the axle appears to have survived unscathed, no tears or bumps distorting the smooth woodwork. 

Wulf climbs back onto the coach, clucks his tongue, and slaps the long reins against Breki's rump to get him moving again. 

He takes more care from now on to steer his horse around any holes in the road. 

 

It is the first night he has to spend all on his own since that terrible, brilliant idea of his younger self that changed everything when he had decided to follow a caravan of strangers out into the world.  The stars are bright pinpricks against the drape of dusk and the night-sky is clear with the promise of winter hanging thickly in the sharp air. 

Wulf gets up to find the horse-blanket and tosses it over Breki's back.  He then hunkers down next to his small but carefully built campfire, stirring the unappetizing charred lumps that are frying in the pan, waiting to become his dinner. 

It feels strange to be all on his own.  He keeps busy for as long as he can, tending to the fire and eating, then washing the pan and bowl out in a nearby brook.  Wulf hisses when the cold water stings his hands, making his fingers feel swollen and stiff, and spends a few minutes pinching them back to life until they are red and tingling. 

But inevitably the moment arrives when he runs out of tasks to occupy himself with.  Then his thoughts turn to the road, and the vast emptiness of the country around him, and how utterly alone he now is. 

The boy is used to rely on himself, though in the last years he has had friends to watch his back.  Even before that, in the Imperial City, when he had run through its streets as just another urchin, there had always been a crowd of people surrounding him.  They paid the child little to no mind, and it had suited him and his thieving ways well. 

While not a comfort in itself – for the city folk had been more indifferent and colder at heart than those living in the multitude of little villages Wulf had visited since – their presence was familiar, something that never changed and could be felt wherever you were; from the beautiful houses that Wulf had snuck past hard-faced guards to admire from close-up, to those huddling together in a filthy alley for warmth, they all had something in common.  They belonged.  They were of the city. 

And the city was made up of them, of the press and heat of bodies as they bustled in the streets, sometimes hurried, sometimes at a leisurely stroll, but always moving with a purpose known only to them.  Of the chaos they created which could be overwhelming to somebody not used to it, but made perfect sense to those few who knew its patterns, because they looked.  Because they _saw_. 

Noise was a constant companion; snatches of conversation from every direction, hawkers crying their wares, voices raised in anger when a brawl broke out, and in laughter that spilled out into the streets through an open door that was shut quickly after, as if those inside were afraid of the good mood escaping.  Then there were the smells; the good ones, food cooking and wood-smoke, perfume and incense, and the bad ones, filth, rotting garbage and the sour odour of the unwashed masses. 

There was heat and light and music in a city, and it was full to the brim with _life_.

So unlike this place.  If he and Breki were to become the only living beings, he wouldn't even know it.  The horse probably does not care, but the human shivers from the thought. 

Wulf retrieves one of Rislav's maps from his pack and studies the fine lines by the flickering light of the fire.  He has already decided not to press north, towards Chorrol, but to go east.  Between the White River meadows and the arms of the wild Sirid River lies the county of Skingrad.  If he keeps his course, Wulf should come across the mining town of Grey Rock, from where the Golden Road will lead him straight to the capital. 

He has never been to Skingrad before, and visiting a new city is an exciting, if daunting prospect. 

Wulf scowls at the fire, trying to douse the sparks of agitation and fear, both.  He is not a child anymore.  He knows his letters and numbers, and how to keep the accounting book in order.  He has watched the old merchant sell his wares all over Cyrodiil and beyond, from the distant wet woods of Leyawiin, through Hammerfall's craggy mountains and canyons, and as far up as Farrun in High Rock.  He has learned how to cross difficult terrain, how to navigate with the help of the sky and land, and how to fight.  As Holmar had predicted, an eternity ago, Wulf has grown into the sword he had taken from his father. 

Its solid weight is a reassurance as well as a constant reminder of the decisions that have led him here, of the life he had chosen for himself.  He touches the hilt with habitual ease.  The leather under his fingertips has become dark and glossy, polished by his touch and sweat.  In contrast the metal wire is slightly tacky from the cold and burns his skin.  Wulf rubs his thumb over the rough links, absent-mindedly. 

'How do the others do it?' he wonders.  How did Sven know where to go next, and Sliveig with whom to hire on?  Where do you learn that, when you have nobody to tell you that you are doing the right thing?  How does one _know_?  He regrets the questions he had never asked. 

Wulf gets up suddenly and paces about his camp.  Breki pauses in his grazing to watch his movements, eyes aglow in the darkness and Wulf retrieves a pair of well-used brushes and sets to brushing him down and untangling the snarls from his mane and tail.  It means he will get full of horsehair, but he does not mind.  Horses smell better than most people, Wulf finds, and the chore is simple, repetitive, and it keeps him from fretting over a future he has no influence over.  He can decide which city to visit, and which road to take to get there, but that's where his control ends. 

There are so many things he did not see coming.  The axe-wielding skirmisher who, in a moment of luck, had somehow managed to get past Holmar's guard.  Holmar, who had been a veteran warrior when the other lad had still hung from his mother's teat, who had died not for lack of training or experience, but because his fate had decided so.  There had been the harmless-looking cut that Sliveig had refused to let them burn out, and which had first turned her hand, and then the rest of arm black and dead, bit by bit. 

They had all been so much older and wiser, and now they are gone.  And in their stead is a boy, six-and-ten, walking the fine line between youth's fearless immortality and scared-witless bravado. 

Breki rubs his head against Wulf's hip and he strokes its huge, soft muzzle.  He feels better when the gelding sighs happily, releasing a warm puff of air that caresses the side of his face. 

Even a stupid horse is less anxious about spending the night out here than he is. 

He is a man grown.  He should not need the comfort of a big, dumb animal. 

Wulf checks the horse's line, and then stomps back to the wagon, where he curls up in a nest of furs.  Though he is tired, sleep comes only after a long time filled with restless turning in which his mind revisits all the past mistakes he has made and conjures up new ones to torture him with.  Eventually Wulf drifts off to the imagined voices of his former companions raised in an equally unreal, but familiar argument about whether Bronn had eaten the last of their sweetmeats. 

 

Morning dawns with cold clarity.  The autumn mists that so often hang over the countryside like a blanket have solidified into a thin crust of ice that has swallowed grass, trees, and Wulf's wagon alike.  Leaves of every colour are frozen, to be freed to waft in the breeze only when the sun rises to melt their prison.  The world has undergone a crunching, glittering transformation, as if a wizard with terrible powers had cast a spell upon the lands, encasing them in ice. 

Wulf comes around slowly with nobody to shake him awake and call him a sleepyhead.  When he manages to force his heavy eyelids to open, he finds that overnight he has been transported into one of the many stories he had used to make up when he had been younger. 

His father had always hated magic, and the people of Bruma had whispered of a city far to the North that many years ago had crumbled into the sea.  They had said it was punishment for the frivolities of the mages who had brought the Gods' wrath down upon themselves. 

All that had meant nothing to the boy, except that that there was a place somewhere that was frozen all year round, where strange robed people waved their hands and mumbled incantations and made fantastic things happen, or appear out of the thin air. 

Wulf has never seen magic being worked before from close-up; this morning is actually the closest he has ever come to it.  It is all over by midday, and the road calls to him once more. 

 

xxxx

 

Whoever had named Grey Rock had either been a very unimaginative individual, or possessed of a terrible sense of humour.  The village offers little beyond one inn, empty at this early hour, and quarries left and right, as far as Wulf can see. 

The stone had been needed to satisfy the demand of Skingrad when the city had been on the rise, but Grey Rock's best days are long over.  Now it supplies what rock is needed for repair work and the occasional citizen who does not wish to construct his home from wood which is cheaper, easier to obtain and to work, but ultimately less durable.  But those are becoming rarer as the years pass, and Grey Rock's future looks to be the colour of the limestone it has been named after. 

Wulf learns all of this and more over the course of his meal from the innkeeper, who happens to be a chatty fellow and goes by the name of Iovian.  Iovian serves his only customer a soup of cabbage and sausage in a hollow bread crust, and hovers nearby as the boy eats, twisting a perfectly clean rag between plump, soft-looking hands. 

"Why don't I move to the city, you probably wonder?" the innkeeper asks during a prominent silence while Wulfryk is nibbling on the softening bread crust after it has absorbed some of the soup. 

Wulf doesn't; he has other things to worry about than a stranger's motivation for staying in this sad little town, but he also does not care enough to point it out. 

"It ain't that bad a living for Old Iovian," the man prattles on, unawares of his guest's lack of participation in what has become a very one-sided conversation.  Or maybe he is used to his conversational partners giving up on ever getting a word in edgewise.  "Many folks on their way to Skingrad pass through my inn.  Just like you.  Is there anything else I can do for you, young mister?"

Wulf shakes his head, not sure whether he likes the Imperial's way of addressing him.  He'll have more coin once he sells some of the goods, and until then he has to watch how much he spends.  "How far is it to the city?" he asks, a full belly and the warmth of the room making him drowsy.  He doesn't want to go outside, into the cold and the wind.

"... two days," Wulf hears Iovian finish and his head snaps up when he realizes how close he has been to drowsing off on the innkeeper. 

"But that is for folks on foot.  You and your fine horse might make it in less than that," the Imperial continues. 

"Thanks," Wulf mumbles and remembers to lift a hand to cover his mouth when he yawns. 

"Why don't you rest up?" Iovian suggests, "And I'll look after your horse?  Skingrad is not a sparrow, it won't take wing," the innkeeper says. 

Wulf nods and waves the other man off and decides that Iovian isn't so bad after all, when the other man hastily leaves.  Wulf pulls the brim of his hat down until it covers his face, giving him a minimum of privacy.  Sven had won it last year in an archery competition in Drakelowe, but it had turned out to be too small for him, and so he had given it to Wulf.  Wulf likes it because it keeps the rain off his head better than a hood, and because it has an eagle's feathers threaded into its band.  He sinks deeper into the chair, puts up his feet and closes his eyes, finding sleep with the practiced ease of a lifelong vagabond. 

 

Skingrad emerges out of the cloudy sky exactly a day and a half later.  It is a city of walls and high pointy towers and it spans two hills, connecting them by lofty, arched bridges.  The gates open into a narrow valley, with the city towering above Wulf.  He cranes his neck as he approaches, but from below it is nigh impossible to catch even a glimpse of the castle.  Bronn had said that for five centuries the city had stood, proud and unconquered, until during the Great War the elves had taken it by trickery. 

Skingrad looks like it has seen better days.  Wulf makes notice of the overgrown piles of rubble on the side of the road that might once have been homes, and of how few people there are about.  Midday has just passed, and the weather is fair, so the lack of traffic cannot be blamed upon the hour or the time of the year. 

Wulfryk is disappointed.  A few years back every new location he had visited had left him with different impressions ranging from awed at the cities' magnificence, to thrilled at the prospect of uncovering the mysteries of an abandoned ruin.  Even cities like Leyawiin and Bravil had their charm despite parts of them being quite rundown and dangerous.  Maybe because of it.  They had smelled of heat, rot, and a thousand disreputable, but exciting lives.  Now, wherever Wulf looks, he sees the accumulated filth; debris, grime, refuse and humans, and wishes he didn't. 

Now those places merely reek. 

"... now," one of the guards standing next to the gate says, snippets of their conversation carrying over to Wulf on the wind. 

"I don't know, Hader," his friend hesitates.  "It doesn't feel right– " 

"You know what don't feel right?" the man who has to be Hader snaps back, "Coming home to my woman weeping because the midwife told her she'll lose the babe.  Watching me kids go hungry every night 'cause I have five more mouths to feed since me brother died." 

"Can't Lavius help you out?" 

"He lost a foot to the elves, idiot.  It's not like he's going to grow it back anytime soon.  Hey you, boy!" the guard shouts just as Wulf is about to pass into the cold shadow of the iron portcullis.  "You got a writ of passing?" 

"A what?"  Wulf asks, momentarily disoriented to be addressed at all. 

"A writ.  O' passin'.  You dumb, boy?" 

They would not have spoken like this to any of the others; Bronn who was twice the man these two were together, or Rislav whose quiet demeanour and age demanded respect, and most certainly not to Sliveig, who'd have the guard by his balls, threatening to cut them off. 

Wulf suppresses a 'I heard you the first time', and shakes his head.  He doesn't want any trouble.  Guards don't like being talked back to, and this one looks like he's had a particularly bad day.  He also does not want the few people passing him by to stop and gawk at the scene, wishing that the beard his father had promised him years ago would hurry up, because there is no way for him to hide the blood rushing to his face.  He hates being young, but looking his age makes it that much worse. 

An old man standing in line behind him curses, and that does it.  "Give me some room to back up!" Wulf shouts at him, and the gaffer says some pretty nasty things about his mother that Wulf couldn't have cared less about since he doesn't have one, but under the guards' stern gaze the codger hurries to the side. 

Good for him, because Wulfryk is manoeuvring Breki backwards, and the draught would otherwise plough right through him and his pathetic little cart and underfed mule. 

Wulf would have enjoyed the soldiers dress the fleabeard down, but they focus on him instead.  Wonderful. 

"You here for tradin', aye?" Hader, who had called him dumb, asks, indicating the wagon. 

Wulf nods curtly.  He isn't in a conversational mood, not after the greeting he's received. 

Neither of the men seems to care, and Hader continues, "We need an estimated worth of your goods to tax them." 

"I never heard of anything like this."  Wulf fixes the guard with a hard frown, and wishes his friend spoke up more. 

"You ever been to Skingrad before?" 

"No, but... "  His voice chooses that moment to break.  It is just a hitch, a tiny weakness where there had been none before, and Wulf's nails bite into the palm of his hand, because he had gone through all this before, and he doesn't understand why it just won't stop.  He looks away, embarrassed and angry, and studies the irregular pattern of the stitches upon his reins. 

Wulf imagines the cruel, haughty smirk playing around Hader's lips.  He doesn't look up, doesn't care whether the man's face actually remains impassive, because he can hear the mockery in his voice.  "Maybe that's the reason." 

No wonder there's so few people about.  This provincial, sow-loving fuckbucket must have scared them all off.  Wulf wisely refrains from saying so, though in his thoughts he does. But in his mind he is a seasoned warrior six feet tall, with eyes so cold that even Legionnaires shrink away from his gaze.  The scars from his adventures are etched into his face, and this time it is the guard who is a lonely, frightened nobody.  The fantasy helps, if only a little.  

"Count's orders," the other soldier hastily throws in. 

The guards share a long look until the one with the bugs up his ass blows a huge sigh in surrender.  If Wulf had to guess, the Imperial would have been happy to leave him outside, but instead he turns and waves at the boy.  "Follow me, I'll show you to the appraiser." 

Wulf tries to catch the second man's eye, to get some sort of clue from him, but he is already dealing with the foul-mouthed old man with the mule cart.  There's nothing the Nord can do but to snap the reins and guide Breki after Hader.  Wulfryk entertains the brief fantasy of running him over, and a tight, grim smirk blossoms on the boy's face.  He is soon distracted by the bustle around him and the sight of a cathedral in the distance, and he nearly loses the soldier in the afternoon crowd.  He suffers through a moment of panic, until the glare of sunlight off metal helps him pick out the guard's polished helmet bobbing a short way ahead of him.  From that moment on, Wulf keeps his focus on the man's back.  He'll have time to discover the city later. 

It's a part of being grown-up that he doesn't like.  Not too long ago he would have ditched his companions to wander the streets while they saw to more important matters.  Now it all falls to him, from dealing with obnoxious people wanting to make his life difficult, to giving the building they end up in front of a critical assessment. 

Hader unlocks a massive padlock and Wulf doesn't move to help him pull open the big and heavy-looking doors. 

He finds himself inside a warehouse, with crates and boxes stacked as high as the ceiling.  It looks a little bit cramped and disorderly, and when Breki paws at the ground, his hoof tears a streak through the grime on the floor.  Other than that it appears to be abandoned. 

Hader is not happy, but that hardly seems unusual with what Wulf has seen of the man so far.  "Publius!" the guard bellows though to Wulf it is obvious that the action is futile.  "Well," Hader states, thumbs hooked into his belt, "Looks like he ain't here anymore." 

"I want the writ," Wulf says.  He fails to see how any of that is his problem.  If the count likes his coin so much, then his taxmen should work more than half a day. 

"Aye," the Imperial waves him off, and turns a full circle, as if he expects Publius to magically appear in one of the corners.  "Seems you'll have to wait until tomorrow." 

"I guess I'll just stay here then," Wulf replies, heavy-hearted.  This isn't how he had planned to spend the day.  

The guard's eyes narrow dangerously.  "And smuggle?" he asks, and before Wulf can open his mouth to protest, he says, "I may got nothin' on you yet, but just you try me.  Now.  Leave the wagon or leave the city."

A boy of his age should not know the curse that escapes Wulfryk.  He picked up on a lot of choice words when he grew up in the slum of the Imperial City.  

The guard doesn't need an explanation.  "Building's locked," he points out in a clipped tone.  "Your effects will be perfectly safe." 

After another while of hesitation, longer this time, Wulf climbs from the coach.  He doesn't like any of this, but he unhitches Breki from the wagon anyway.  He cannot leave.  Not now, when he has finally reached a center of trade, not when he needs the coin to stay somewhere until winter passes and he can travel again.  And above all else, he does not want to spend another night outside.  He wants a fire in the hearth and a warm meal at the end of the day, and a bed that is more than a pile of furs. 

Hader watches the boy work from a distance.  "Ey!" he eventually calls out, though his face remains a cold, emotionless mask.  "A word of advice: You'll want to keep that mouth of yours shut." 

He isn't the first to give such advice to Wulfryk.  "Yes, sir."  Wulf doesn't raise his head because he is not sure he could keep the look of pure hate from his eyes, but he pays lip service well enough that a satisfied grunt escapes the guard.  Wulfryk decides to press his luck.  "If you would put in a word for me with one of the stable owners... since I can't visit the market today I might be... short the fee." 

It's not entirely true, but like all good lies it has a kernel of truth in it.  Wulf has enough coin hidden away to pay for lodging and a stable, but he had planned on selling some of the goods before he spending any more. 

It is the first time the Imperial reacts with anything other than scorn.  He rubs his nose, red and criss-crossed by broken veins, before he comes to a decision.  "Eh, I can do better." 

A childhood spent with one, Wulf knows a drunk when he sees one.  The soldier does not smell of alcohol, so he is probably happy to contain his drinking to his off-duty hours.  It does not endear him to the boy one bit, though he does not seem to be nearly as foul-tempered as he retrieves a scrap of leather from his pouch and holds it out. 

"Here.  This'll set you up with Fat Gnaeus." 

The leather is crude and singed, the black lines of a symbol burned into it faintly visible against the dark brown.  Wulf has seen similar messages being used before; a written order isn't worth much when neither party knows how to read.  He nods his head and pockets the skin without asking for directions to this Gnaeus.  Surely somebody else can tell him.  He wants nothing as much as to get away from this guard, and as soon as possible at that. 

Wulfryk grabs his backpack, glad that he had the foresight to pack it properly before he left Grey Rock.  He remembers the town and the friendly innkeeper a lot more fondly, all of a sudden. 

"What about that?"  Hader suddenly asks, a hungry glint in his eye. 

"That's my things," Wulf tells him with a sinking feeling.  "They're not for trading."  His flight instinct kicks in, and in the same instant and he ends backing up.  His steps taking him closer to the door, the exit he has learned to always keep in sight, where escape is made easier by the open space and where he can find cover amongst the many citizens.  He tells himself that he cannot run from every drunk he crosses paths with, that his is the reaction of the street rat he had used to be, and not who he is now. 

Wulf digs in his heels and, heart pounding away in his chest, fights the feeling down until it is no more than hot coals simmering in the pit of his stomach. 

Hader grunts again, showing his highly advanced skills in non-verbal communication, but he does not press the matter.  He marches them both out of the warehouse, and Wulf holds his breath, expecting the man to change his mind any moment.  There are a few small but valuable pieces hidden in his pack's pockets that would be hard to explain as personal belongings.  But this time luck is on his side and they are overlooked, and Wulf suffers through agonizing minutes as Hader secures the building and explains the way to Gnaeus' stables. 

Wulfryk doesn't want the guard's _help_.  He doesn't need it. 

He hates every step of the way that takes him in the right direction.  He loathes that he is following the instructions though there is nothing stopping him from turning around and just picking a stable at random.  Part of him, the part that's always angry these days, wants to do just that.  To toss the leather token into the next chute to rot with the refuse already there, but in the end he does not do it.  The part that over the course of four long years had some brains hammered into his 'thick Nord skull', as Rislav occasionally used to say when he had been particularly vexed with his pupil's lack of progress, knows that he should avoid spending coin before he gets his wares back and actually makes some profit from selling them. 

Wulf doesn't like the looks of Gnaeus' stables when he arrives.  It's not that they are located outside of the city walls, but rather because there is too much rubbish lying around, things both pointy and rusty.  From pieces of equestrian equipment to parts of what might have been a plough, none of the items belong in stable, in Wulf's opinion.  The hay may be fresh, but it is not enough to cover up the smell of vinegar and the underlying reek of mouse urine.  'It's only for a day,' he tells himself, and hands the stable owner the patch of leather he had received from Hader earlier.  He is relieved when Imperial takes it without a comment, no questions asked, no answers needed. 

Breki at least does not seem to mind his new lodgings.  The horse goes straight for his trough and begins to munch on a small mountain of oats and carrots.  The stable master instructs a groom with lank blond hair and a bad overbite to give the horse some hay.  The Imperial heaves a miniature bale into the stall and whatever else he finds amiss, Wulf cannot say that the man is stingy with feed. 

He hangs off the stall door and listens to Breki chew, low crunching sounds that are interrupted only by a couple of happy snorts.  Wulf gives his horse a rub-down, stealing two handfuls of hay for the task.  He is stalling.  As long as he is here, he does not have to go out and seek a place to stay the night.  Inside the stall life has the simple rhythm he has grown accustomed to on the road.  He drags his work out for as long as he can – until the groom's glances turn from curious to annoyed and though he does not say one word, Wulf leaves shortly after. 

 

xxxx

 

The sun is still high in the sky when the Nord boy skips down the steps leading to the Red Cockerel.  His pouch is a few coins lighter, but in exchange for them he now has a cot in a room of ten.  Only two of the beds show signs of occupation, and he has hope that the others will remain empty.  After so much time on his own, Wulf becomes uneasy at the thought of sleeping in the presence of strangers.  He has no desire to sit in the room and brood on whether he will get any rest at all as long as there is an entire city waiting to be explored, though. 

He is less worried about his pack that he leaves behind, than he is about the upcoming night.  According to Imperial law the host is liable for his guests' belongings, and most keepers of inns and taverns take that responsibility very seriously.

With nothing better to do until tomorrow Wulf sets out to discover what Skingrad has to offer other than unfriendly guardsmen.  There has to be more. 

The Great Chapel of Julianos is easy to find, standing tall and proud in a huge open plaza ringed by centuries-old oak trees.  This time of the year the branches bear no leaves and the brown-robed monk next to the entrance is using his besom to lean on while he speaks to a woman with a wicker basket tucked under one arm.  Wulf passes them by, returns the greetings he receives, and steps into the cool interior of the chapel.  It is rather austere with no decorations save for the eight altars themselves, yet somehow the coloured glass in the tall, arched windows gives it a simple kind of beauty. 

Wulf admires the artfully hewn stone, and finds a bronze plaque that tells a chilling tale of how the undercroft was once said to be haunted.  He then makes his round, stops at each of the alters dedicated to one of the gods - not to pray, but to look - and notes the niche that is empty, a darker ring marring the otherwise polished stone. 

He moves on. 

He tries not to think about his wagon, abandoned until tomorrow in that warehouse.  Wants to go back, but he stays away with the same intensity he once saw a beggar amputate his own foot.  Every hour that passes feels like the slice of a blade. 

Wulf squares his shoulders and heads further up, through winding alleys and up a dozen flights of stairs, until most of the city is sprawled out beneath him.  Tomorrow will bring a new day, and a new self, he promises, one that is bold and speaks his mind even if it means confrontation.  Tomorrow he will be that person 

Wulf doesn't get close to the castle, the knights posted at the bridge stopping him in a much more courteous manner than the soldier at the gates had.  They don't mind him leaning on the masonry to drink in his fill of the high battlements and towers, and one of the men even advices him to visit the mansions that used to house the Fighters' and the Mages' Guilds during the Oblivion crisis, so that's what Wulf does next. 

A friendly Dunmer as wrinkled as a winter-prune ushers him in when he sees the lad studying the stone tablet that is attached to the door and tells of the founding of the Fighter's Guild.  The grandfather seems happy to give him a tour of the house, now turned into museum, and to share its history.  He had come from Chorrol, and he had known some of the people that had walked these halls in person.  But those were events of long ago, and today few remember the deeds of the Guilds, though they were great and many in number.  

Wulf leaves when hunger begins to gnaw on his belly.  He is surprised to see the pale autumn sun low in the sky, having lost count of the hour.  There are still stalls selling food open, and he buys himself some roast chicken and chestnuts.  The vendor is a plump woman who saunters back to her friend's stall once she is done serving him.  He could easily have nabbed half the food and made away with it without her knowing.  But Wulf left that life behind when he joined Rislav's caravan. 

He will never have to be a lowly thief urchin anymore.  He throws the bone with some leftover gristle to an alley dog that has nearly gone bald from mange.  The mutt sniffs the air, but is too afraid to come out of the safety of the dirty gutter to get the morsel. 

On his way back to the inn Wulf passes a statue of a man in horseback.  Even hewn in stone it is easy to see that his garb is splendid.  'Rislav Larich, _the Rightous_ , King of Skingrad, 4E 478-499' the bronze plaque reads.  Wulf smiles up at the figure, though the feeling of joy is tempered by one of lingering sadness.  How the old man would have loved to see this.  'Did he know?' Wulf wonders.  He longs to share his discovery with somebody, but there is no one who'd truly understand, even if he told them. 

 

xxxx

 

He cannot sleep that night.  The clock in the common room beats twelve times and still he is awake, tossing and turning.  The room is too hot, the air too still.  Wulf rolls to his feet, giving up on sleep for the moment.  A cool breeze strokes his hair back from his sweaty forehead when he opens the shutters to the night.  Outside, the city is quiet.  Peaceful. 

The innkeeper will have locked the establishment up, but there is always another way in - or out for the matter.  Wulf finds his boots in the dark by touch, and puts them on as quietly as he can, so as not to wake any of the other people sleeping in the room.  The soft snores coming from the opposite corner never let up though, and he shrugs into his overcoat, and slings his sword belt over one shoulder.   For deterrence - and may he have no need for it. 

It is a one-storey drop from the windowsill, but a patch of earth makes the fall much less daunting than it would be if there were cobblestones below.  Wulf lands well, the impact by lessened by an unscheduled roll that leaves wet patches on his knees.  The boy climbs to his feet, wiping his hands on pants that are none the worse for wear for a few new grass-stains. 

The hour is late enough that the lantern-lighters have long since made their rounds.  Inns and taverns with free beds traditionally keep a burning candle in a window so that it may light the way for travellers, and their warm glow is the only light other than that of the stars.  Masser and Secunda are nowhere in sight.  A moonless night.  Dark, well-suited for dark business.  _Vispilio_.  Cloak for thieves and bad omen to beggars. 

Wulf is neither.  The boy isn't afraid of the long shadows.  He seeks them out. 

Wulfryk isn't sure how long he aimlessly strolls through the vacated streets.  Occasionally he catches a flash of green eyes as stray cats dart out of his way, and in one case he sidesteps a vagrant sleeping with a half-empty bottle clutched to his chest.  He realizes where he has wandered when voices make him instinctively duck for the cover of a nearby alley. 

Two men in dark garb pass him by, talking in hushed tones.  One is tall and willowy, and carries a closed lantern that allows only a narrow beam of light escape.  His companion is shorter, with a stiff right leg.  It may be wooden, though the dark makes it hard to tell. 

"You seen that nag o' his?" the man walking in front asks.  His voice has a high, whiny quality to it.  "Ain't never seen a horse that size." 

"They grow big 'n dumb in the north," his friend answers, and they both laugh. 

Meanwhile, Wulf's heart skips a beat.  He feels his nails bite into his palms.  It cannot be.  They cannot be possibly talking about...  He doesn't understand what follows, the distance too great to make out any further words.  Wulf chances a look around the corner, then cautiously follows.  The two Imperials are unaware of his presence, of that he is sure.  They do not seem uneasy by conducting their business in the night, either.  No sneaking for them, no hastily thrown glances over their shoulder.  They walk the street with authority, unperturbed and seemingly unconcerned about being seen by someone else, like a guard on patrol. 

Until they vanish out of sight into a side-street.  The building at the far end is familiar.  Wulf moves closer.  Every step weights his feet down with invisible lead and makes his heart throw itself against his sternum in a frenzy. 

The doors are wide open  The building is empty, save for a few dusty crates and the two soldiers. 

And it is the very warehouse Halof has led Wulfryk to this morning.  

He knew.  Something in him knew, that's why he felt so bad about the whole matter.  Wulf feels numb, the same kind of unfeeling deadness that grips your body when you are stabbed by a sharp knife.  When you cannot feel the wound dealt to you, the pain comes from looking down and finding the blade embedded in your flesh, from seeing blood well up and seep out of a wound.  From understanding. 

But - they had been _guards_. 

Never had he expected to have one pulled over him so brazenly.  There had been other people present.  Why had none of them spoken up?  Part of him does not want to believe what his eyes tell him. 

"We are done here; let's check in with Ollin." 

The noise brings Wulf back into his own body.  He can barely feel his fingers, white-knuckled and cold, clutching at the stonework of a nearby house - or the brief sting where he cut his hand and didn't notice. 

The guards move on and Wulf trudges behind them, lost, to the very edge of town.  The shorter man unlocks a small side-gate.  The Imperials step through and instead of locking it they merely close it.

Wulf slips through behind them, like a ghost.  In front of him, Gnaeus' stables appear out of the rising mist.  The men enter, and a dog begins to bark, but is quickly silenced.  Wulf remains outside, trying to make out what is going on inside through cracks in the wood. 

"Wouldn't be better t' sell eet?" the thin man asks, out of sight.  He is chewing on something, and it makes his speech distorted and difficult to understand. 

His friend grunts in answer.  "No other use for a gelded horse this old." 

Wulf listens in with a cold, sinking feeling in his stomach as the men discuss his horse.  A third figure joins them.  For a brief moment the lantern's light illuminates his long face, giving Wulf enough time to recognize one of Gnaeus' stablehands. 

"Big thing, innit?" the groom asks, mirroring the guard's earlier sentiment. 

"Good."  The stocky soldier's voice turns hard.  "Butcher pays per stone of horseflesh." 

"Does he know?" 

"Vivius?  No.  An' he's an all strict an upright one, he is.  So you keep your trap shut around him."  The threat is clear enough that the stablehand doesn't need any more discouragement. 

"Alright."  Peg-leg rights himself and brushes past the others.  "You boys take care of things.  I have a post to return to." 

Wulf hurries to make it to the gate before the man.  It remains unguarded, and the run back to the inn passes in a flash.  At the Red Cockerel the window is still open, and the patrons asleep.  No one notices the untimely departure of one Nord boy.  Wulf doesn't have a convenient side-door to sneak out of the city, but all the time he has spent scaling Bruma's walls pays off when he finds a place where fallen debris and a half-caved in house make it easy to cross the walls.  Maybe once upon a time it had been impossible to do this in Skingrad, when the masonry had seen proper upkeep.  Maybe, once upon a time it had been impossible in Bruma and the capital, too. 

All Wulf knows is that he cannot let them have Breki.  They have taken his goods already and growing up in the Imperial City has disillusioned Wulf enough for him to know he is never getting them back.  Nobody will help him to what is rightfully his.  There is just nobody who cares for one useless Nord boy and it isn't in his power to reclaim them on his own.  Whom could he complain to anyway?  The guards?  Accusing one of their own is a serious offence, and he has no one to vouch for him.  At best they would clap him in irons for being a liar and a cheat. 

There is no salvaging the goods, but that stupid old horse is the last tie he has to Rislav, to the caravan that had been his home for the past four years of his life.  He had given the old man his word that he would look after the nag.  He has to try, at least, even though promises aren't worth the breath they use up, no matter whom they come from.  Holmar had once promised they'd stay together.  He'd gotten himself killed, and then Bronn had said he'd had enough of this life, and that was it for a mumble of words.  They should have stayed together, the five of them, as they had toasted on many a drunken night.  None of the others ever managed to fill the gap the guards left behind.  Wulf had hated half of them on the principle that they weren't his friends, that it just wasn't the same anymore. 

Wulf tries not to think of the fate that awaits him if he is caught, a quick drop and a sudden stop, as the saying goes. 

 

The stables are guarded by a huge white dog, shaggy and mean-tempered.  It shoots out of the door when Wulf opens it.  The boy slips inside before the hound manages to sink its teeth into his flesh.  A deep growl escapes the animal's throat, and it jumps at the intruder.  Wulf slams the door shut, catching its muzzle between the wood and the wall.  The dog lets out a high-pitched whine and slinks away. 

Wulf closes the door and leans with his back against the wood, breathing hard as his eyes adjust to the surrounding dark.  He had not brought a candle or lamp out of fear of being discovered, and he regrets that decision, forced as he is to stumble along the line of stalls with one hand outstretched.  It doesn't take too long before Wulf can make out the horses' outlines, however, and standing taller at the withers than most men there is at least no mistaking Breki. 

The gelding takes the apple Wulf offers it gingerly, and with only the barest tickling brush if its whiskers.  Before he has finished chewing, Wulfryk has him haltered and tosses his pack over the horse's back.  Breki's neck becomes longer and longer, before the boy manages to convince him to step out of stall and stable, and into the night. 

Somewhere, the guard dog starts barking again, and several others in the city join. 

"Blimey!" a coarse voice calls out and Wulf freezes.  A moment later a light flares up as an oil lamp is lit.  Wulfryk can see Gnaeus' unmistakable silhouette come around the stables; and who knew that a man of his bulk could move with such speed? 

Wulf begins to pull harder on Breki's lead.  The horse is huge and slow, and not at all aware of the urgency of the situation.  It takes a few more tugs for it to break out into a lazy trot, its iron-shod hooves falling against the stone of the walkway with a ringing that sounds thunderous in the night. 

"You'll hang for that, horse-thief!" the stable master bellows.  The lantern in his hand swinging madly as the man dashes to catch up to Wulf. 

He wields a nasty nail-spiked club in his other fist, and Wulfryk gives up on trying to run away and hauls himself up onto Breki's back.  He has never properly ridden a horse, but Breki is broad enough and has a mane he can cling to. 

Gnaeus arrives too late, skidding to a sudden stop when Wulf draws his sword.  There is no doubt that he recognizes the rider, eyes widening with shock. 

"What's going on?" the Imperial gasps. 

"This is my horse!"  Wulf screams back at him, giving voice to all the rage pent up inside him.  He won't let them have it.  "You–"

"Yeah?  Why are you fleeing in the middle o' the night, then?" 

Wulf's head whips around.  He recognizes the thin man with the high voice.  _Where he had come from_?  The man's grin shows a gap toothed smile.  He has taken the boy by surprise, and he knows it.  "It doesn't have to be like this," the Imperial coaxes.  "Just get down, hand us the horse and we'll let you go." 

"Guardsman!  I- What is going on?"  Gnaeus is ignored as the soldier begins to close in. 

They will kill him.  He cannot let them catch him.  Wulf desperately buries his heels into Breki's sides, his grip on reins and sword slick with sweat.  The horse lunges forward. 

"You little cunt- ," the guard doesn't get further before he is forced to jump aside to avoid collision with two thousand pounds of horseflesh galloping straight at him. 

Wulf feels elation surge through him, break through the fear.  He is getting away. 

Behind him, almost swallowed by the clattering of hooves, somebody curses.  "Fock it." 

In the next moment Wulfryk is tossed forward, as the horse bucks and kicks out.  The boy glances back to see a feathered shaft stick out of Breki's round belly.  As he looks on, another arrow buries itself in his horse's neck, abruptly ending their charge. 

Both guard and stable master stop in their tracks.  There is a third man though, visible thanks to Gnaeus' lamp.  The groom nocks another arrow.  Shoots.  Misses. 

Wulf doesn't have to urge Breki into another gallop.  The panicked animal only wants to run, outrun the pain. 

The archer makes the mistake to keep firing at the horse, not the rider.  He meets his end upon Wulf's sword.  The Nord swings his leg over Breki's neck, slides off the still-moving horse sideways. 

Gnaeus is right there, that giant club clutched tightly in his paw.  Wulf doesn't give him the opportunity to swing it.  He runs the man through.  Without armour to stop it, the blade easily sinks into the Imperial's gut right up to the crossguard.  Wulf kicks him off.  Pulls out the sword, pivots.  He turns in time to see the guard two-hand an axe that he is sure has never seen a pile of wood.  The man is eying Wulf's bloody blade warily, and the Nord can see how the soldier moves with the fluid grace of a veteran. 

He'll be a tough one. 

And then, in a last, heroic act, Breki kicks out.  His hooves catch the approaching warrior high in the chest and in the stomach.  He is lifted into the air and crashes back onto the stones, limp.  Wulf knows his foe isn't getting up again, he could hear the crunch as the man's chest was caved in, bones reduced to splinters.  The soldier spasms a few times, and a stream of bloody vomit erupts from his mouth.  He then lies still.  

From Wulf's right, movement catches his sight.  Gnaeus crawls past the dead groom, clasping his abdomen.  He stills as he hears Wulf approach acting on the same instinct that makes a hare cower under the shadow of a buzzard. 

One hand reaches towards the boy who sidesteps its bloody grasp.  "Please.  Mercy." 

Wulf has none to give.  "Rot in Oblivion," he tells the stable keeper, and pushes his sword into the man's back, severing the vertebra at the base of his skull and giving him a faster death than he thinks the man deserves. 

He feels more pity for the whimpering white dog that slinks up to its dead master to lick his limp hand than he does for the men he killed. 

And then the ground shakes as Breki topples and falls.

Wulf may be young, but he knows that there is nothing he can do for the horse.  A small part of him wishes to leave so he doesn't have to see Breki try to stand up, grunting in pain and kicking as the gelding falls down, pushing the arrow shaft deeper.  Another part knows that he should give it a clean end.  Breki deserves better than to be ripped to pieces by a pack of wolves or wild dogs. 

The thin guard carried an axe, he remembers.  Wulf finds the weapon, buried beneath the man and yanks it from under the body. 

The horse looks at him with the panicked, uncompromising stare of an animal that does not understand the fate that has befallen it.  

Wulf hefts the axe up over his head and brings it down on its neck. 

It's all gone now: the wagon, the goods, the horse.  Wulfryk is no stranger to poverty, but what strikes him most is not the loss itself.  He has not yet grasped the reality of it.  No, it is the sheer unfairness of it all. 

Neither Hader nor his friend are amongst the dead.  Wulf wishes his wife-still birth and the plague upon his brats as he kneels down to grab a handful of snow.  He rubs it over the length of his sword, cleaning the edge of blood. 

The death of three citizens will not go unnoticed.  Wulf knows he has to get out of the area, and fast.  He shoulders his pack, and runs.  He doesn't slow down when his feet begin to hurt from the impact with the uneven stone or when the muscles in his thighs start to feel like they're on fire, but he has to slow down when the burning in his lungs and the pain in his side become so bad they make his head spin. 

Only then does he notice how badly he is shaking, barely able to stay upright for the fluttering of over-stressed muscles.  He should have taken one of the other horses.  Too late for that now.  He can only go on, put as much distance between himself and the city.  Wulf can make out the shape of the castle in the distance, blocking out the stars.  He never wants to see it again.  He's had enough of Skingrad for a lifetime. 

When he looks to the road again, the boy sees light.  A mounted guard.  He should have gotten off the road.  The man must be on nightly patrol duty, something all major cities have in their parameter.  And this one is headed back, and soon he will come this way, and see first Wulf and then the bodies, and it will not take him long to puzzle out what had happened.  

It's all happening too quickly.  The light is coming closer, and Wulf's mind is full of blank static.  His body doesn't feel like his own.  When he lifts an arm, his hand is that of a stranger.  But the pain of the blow he deals himself is real.  The shock of it is enough to snap him out of this strange state. 

What would his father do?  He knows, even before he finishes the thought.  Garmr isn't here, but the man casts a long shadow.  Wulf hates himself for what he is about to do. 

He turns around.  Pretends to be limping towards the city.  And waits for the soldier to catch up to him. 

"Please Sir.  Can you help me?" 

He sounds young, even to his own ears. 

The guard dismounts.  A veteran would have remained on top of his horse, would have ridden for the city and called for aid.  The lad may be in the Legion's armour, but he is just a couple of years older than Wulf, the sparse beginnings of a beard sprouting from his upper lip.  He tries to help Wulfryk stand up, asks what has happened. 

" _Fyrirgef_ _mik_."

The guards' eyes go wide when Wulf's knife bites deeply into his neck. 

Wulfryk pulls himself into the saddle, its leather still warm from the former rider.  Beneath him the horse dances, almost throwing him.  He doesn't know what to do with the stirrups as they hit his shins, he has only ever ridden Breki bareback.  The saddle makes him nearly slide off, so but even at a walk he is faster than on foot.  He will have to leave the horse behind before daybreak.  If it wanders off, maybe the soldiers will pursue it instead of one wandering boy. 

Wulf wishes that it was Hader's body cooling behind him, not that of the young guard.  He wasn't like the other man at all.  He had looked kind and troubled and wanted only to help. 

If only he were somebody else.  Anybody but who he is; an idiot boy who thought he was ready to take on the world.  Wulf is furious with himself.  Why had he not seen it coming? 

He _did_ know better, but he had wanted to believe the lies fed to him, had spent too much time amongst Nords and their damned talk of honour.  The burning sensation at the back of his throat gets worse, until Wulf finds himself dry-swallowing. 

He had not cried when he had first taken a life, and he will not do so now.  In all their years together, Wulfryk had not seen Sliveig shed a single tear.  He wants to be like her, tough and deadly, and cunning.  Funny like Holmar because everybody loved the Redbeard, and big like Bronn, so that no one would dare to mess with him.  Instead here he is, unable to grow a beard, with a voice that goes funny sometimes, too lazy to stick to the road, too weak to tell the guards to fuck off, too much of a pushover to fight them, a coward. 

And what the heavens will he do now? 

 _A Nord doesn't fear_ , his father's words come back to him.  _He is feared_. 

Wulf blinks and drags his hand over his eyes.  He scoops up the wetness he finds there, reaches for the lantern, and extinguishes the flame between his thumb and forefinger. 


End file.
